


Cold Turkey Cases (2003)

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade gets some unexpected help, and Sherlock finds support in a surprising place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The case against the Belarus smuggling ring and the associated death of Charlie Fanshaw once again brought Lestrade to the attention of his superiors for all the right reasons. He did not forget how and why the breakthrough had come. This time, he was determined that the enigmatic young man would not disappear from his radar. He agreed to letting Sherlock go from the station only after extracting a mobile phone number and a promise to stay in touch. He wasn't sure when another case would come up where Sherlock's skills would be useful, but he would keep him in mind. Over the next week, he sent a couple of texts, got two back in reply. The first simply said "bored" and the second was as brusque- another "boring". He found himself hoping for something suitably challenging to come up soon, even though that thought made him feel a bit guilty on behalf of any future victim.

Twelve days after the arrest of Rafe Stevens, Lestrade was walking along Victoria Street, heading up the road from New Scotland Yard to do a bit of grocery shopping. His wife was away tonight and the next two – a 'hen weekend' in Spain for one of her old school chums getting married next weekend. He was making his way through the lunchtime throngs when he spotted a tall dark haired figure walking down the opposite side of the street. Sherlock's head was down and his eyes were fixed on the pavement. Lestrade realised that there was a black car following Sherlock, going at exactly the same pace as the young man. It looked very odd. Traffic was starting to build up behind it, with irate drivers pulling out around it in annoyance. Sherlock was studiously ignoring it.

He wondered whether he should call out, but then realised that Victoria Street's width and the traffic noise would probably mean he wouldn't be heard, so he just watched as the strange combination of pedestrian and car made its way towards him. When they were virtually opposite from where Greg was standing, the young man's patience snapped. He stopped and stared directly up at a CCTV camera on a lamppost. Even above the traffic noise, the DI could hear Sherlock's shout. "Piss off! How many times do I have to do this? Just GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"

This drew a number of stares from the pedestrians walking by, who adjusted their paths to put more distance between themselves and the shouting man. Without another word, Sherlock tucked his head down into his coat, and sprinted off, heading back up the street about twenty feet and taking a sharp left into the pedestrian plaza in front of Westminster's Catholic Cathedral.

Greg realised at that moment what was going on. Sherlock was escaping from the scrutiny of his brother. If the CCTV camera rant wasn't enough of a give-away, it was the two men in suits who got out of the black car, running after him.  _Shit, what's going on here?_

The car then pulled a sharp U turn and headed up at speed towards Victoria Station. By the time he got across the road and into the plaza, there was no sign of either Sherlock or the men following him. Frustrated, he pulled his phone out and scrolled down until he found Sherlock's number.

 **13.15pm Big bro being a pain? If you need help, give me a shout**.

He didn't get a reply, but then he wasn't really expecting one. Disappointed, he carried on up to the supermarket and started shopping for his weekend supplies.

oOo

His arms were full of Sainsbury bags as he fumbled for his keys to the flat.  _Memo to self- thank her for doing this so often; it's a real pain coming home on the tube with the shopping._

He put the food away, popped his ready meal into the microwave, and opened a bottle of beer. There was a game on tonight, and for once, he'd be able to eat in front of the telly. His wife did not approve- standards. She insisted that they have a proper meal at the dining room table where they talked to one another. A guilty smile came out when he forked in the next mouthful of curry and rice, as he watched the goalie make a spectacular save from a free kick. He hadn't even dished the food out onto a plate, but was eating straight from the foil container. Save on the washing up was his motto this weekend. He loved his wife dearly, but sometimes a bloke just wants to chill out in front of the football.

The game went well; sometimes football could be frustratingly unexciting, but this one was full of twists and turns of fortune, leading to a good result: Arsenal 2-West Ham 1. He felt delightfully full and sleepy, so he switched off the TV after the post-game review and headed for the bedroom. An early night was called for.

Four hours later, he was woken up by a sound that he couldn't identify; his brain was still half asleep, but it must have been unusual for it to have woken him up. He wondered for a moment whether his wife had made an unexpected return home, and that worried him enough to decide to get up.

He wandered down the hall into the living room, pulling on his dressing gown, and then stopped dead. There was someone standing in the living room- definitely not his wife. The figure in the dark was tall, thin and then his brain caught up with his eyes. "Sherlock? What are you doing in my living room?" Lestrade's sleep fuddled mind then realised the next fact. "Bloody hell, you broke into my flat!" His indignation was loud and clear.

"You volunteered to help earlier this afternoon, but I didn't think it was civilised to "give you a shout" at this hour, despite your suggestion to do so in the text." This was delivered in a calm, quiet baritone.

Greg sighed. "So, you just thought I wouldn't mind you picking the lock on my front door and marching right in." He rubbed his eyes, which were struggling to see anything in the dark. He reached over to the table lamp and switched it on.

Sherlock turned away from the light, and Lestrade saw that the young man was fighting to stay standing. "What's wrong?" Greg watched as Sherlock lifted his hand to his forehead and then staggered to the armchair where he sat himself down hurriedly.

"Not feeling too well. Might have overdone things a bit."

Lestrade went cold. "Look at me, Sherlock."

When the young man obliged, his eyes were so dilated that Greg could scarcely see any iris at all.

"Shit, you're high."

Sherlock giggled. "Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Detective Inspector. Fancy that, a person you know to be a cocaine addict is actually, for the first time, under the influence of the drug in your presence. Wait, no, I'm wrong. I seem to recall being high at that bar when you first showed up. So, twice, out…. of how many times? Four- well, a lot more if you count the three weeks it took to put the Pountney case together. That's not bad for me. You should feel honoured."

"What the hell, Sherlock. Why?"

"Why what?" He looked confused. "Do you mean why did I break into your flat? That's easy. I deduced when I tailed you home that your wife wasn't here, so I waited until you were asleep, because it was unlikely she'd be returning at this hour. I didn't want to disturb you- just needed a place to rest for a couple of hours that my brother hasn't figured out yet. Managed to get here off CCTV so he won't know. You did offer to help; or was that just being polite?" He looked a bit worried, as if he'd misunderstood the text.

"No, I meant what I said, although I have to admit that I didn't realise you'd take me up on it in the middle of the night. But let's rewind a bit here. Why were those men after you today?"

"You saw me then- when, on Victoria Street? That was the only time Mycroft's minions got within spitting distance of me, so it must have been then."

"Yeah- I was across the road when you had your little rant at the CCTV camera. Jeez- it makes my skin crawl that your 'big brother' is actually a kind of real Big Brother. Must be a downer."

"You have no idea."

"So, what's got him excited at the moment? Is it the drugs?"

"You might say that. If he had his way, he'd wrap me up in cotton wool, and put me in a cage to keep me 'safe'. He doesn't approve of my involvement in the Rafe Stevens case; says it 'put me onto the path of too much temptation'." The baritone voice gave a surprisingly accurate mimicry of the young man in the three piece suit that Greg remembered from seven years before.

Greg's laugh was short lived. "What I actually meant by my first question is ..why are you back on the coke?"

Sherlock started to say in his usual flippant tone "why n…" but Greg interrupted.

"No, don't say that again. I really mean it. Why would someone with your brain do something so amazingly stupid? I just don't get it. So don't trot out some trite little slogan or just laugh it off as being 'bored.' I want the truth. If I'm going to offer you the chance to come down off of your high on my sofa, then I want some straight answers."

"Now you're beginning to sound like one of Mycroft's therapists- the people he made me talk to before I was allowed out of his idea of jail." Sherlock's sneer was evident.

"You mean, rehab? When you left the station all those years ago that's where you said he would take you. Did he?"

"Oh, yes- four months incarceration that time before I figured out what the shrinks in there needed to hear from me before they would let me out. It was easier the second time."

"The  _second_  time…just how many times has it been, Sherlock?"

"Just twice, although if he has his way, there will be another soon."

"Why? And by that I mean, why now? And also why at all?"

"My brother's inability to make me do as he wishes eventually gets to this stage. First, he threatens financial strangulation, if I don't 'mend my ways', then admonishment- which never works- followed by physical restraint, and then 'medication'. Rehab just involves a different set of drugs, Lestrade; the difference is I don't choose to take them, they are forced on me against my will."

Greg took this in and decided he needed a cup of coffee if he was going to continue. "What does caffeine do to you when you're in this state?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

He heard the derisory reply. "Not much- my brain is already enjoying the effects so much that adding a bit more stimulation doesn't matter."

As he prepared the coffee, Greg considered the situation.  _Thank God, Louise isn't here. She just wouldn't get this._  He suddenly thought- "Sherlock, don't you DARE light up a cigarette in here; she'll kill me as well as you!"

When he returned to the living room carrying two cups of black coffee, he found Sherlock sitting with his eyes closed and a contented smile on his face.

"Sherlock, drink some coffee. And then answer the question that you've been avoiding for the past ten minutes."

That got him to open his eyes, looking at Greg with some surprise. He took the coffee and drank a bit as Greg flopped onto the sofa and blew across the top of the steaming mug to try to cool in down a bit.

Sherlock gave a little sigh. "It won't make any sense to you- the reason."

"Try me."

He made a face. Then another sigh. The silence lengthened. Finally, he started; "It's not easy to explain. I don't  _think_  like you do; or, rather, you don't think like me. So my motivations won't make sense. I mean it literally, Lestrade. My brain has neurochemical reactions that are different to yours. Why do you think I studied chemistry, if not to understand just what is going on in this brain of mine? Neurotransmitters in…people like me…don't work the same way yours do."

"As a result, people have been drugging me since before I could walk- trying to make me 'normal', whatever that is supposed to mean. I have what others call Sensory Processing Disorder. So in an attempt to create 'order', they've treated me with an entire pharmacy of drugs to deal with symptoms that normal people consider abnormal. Drugs to treat irritability, anxiety, disrupted sleep patterns, repetitive behaviour, self-stimulation, ADHD, depression, aggression. Loads of labels…"

He shrugged his shoulders. "As a result, I've been given drugs all my life- anti-psychotics, beta blockers, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors- that's an antidepressant by the way. Then there were the neuroleptics, stimulants, pain killers of all types. All of those were legal and administered whether I wanted them or not."

He stopped, drew breath, had a sip of the coffee, and then continued. "In almost every case, they don't have the effect on me that people expect. It's called a 'paradoxical reaction'- give me something that is supposed to drug me into a stupor and I'm just as likely to get even more agitated- halperidol does that, much to the astonishment of A&E departments- except the one time that it actually induced catatonia. Even general anaesthesia- when I had my tonsils removed when I was six, I was still wide awake when they wheeled me into the operating room. When they did eventually get me under, I took four times as long to come out of it than anyone normal. I'm NOT NORMAL." This last phrase was uttered through gritted teeth.

"I have overly active senses. I feel things you can't even begin to understand- the pressure of the cotton seams in this T shirt aggravate my skin to the point where if I had a choice, I'd prefer to be naked than put up with the constant irritation. Not socially acceptable, so I have to just lump it, don't I? I can smell things that you just screen out. The fact that you had curry for supper five hours ago is still in the fabrics of this room, in the pores of your skin, which I can smell by the way, along with your stale deodorant, shampoo and aftershave. I know you drank beer- not bitter or ale, it was lager, because I can smell the difference in the malts. Your wife's choice of perfume is all over this chair, for example, and is giving me a headache. Sometimes, the scent of someone's sandwich is so revolting to me that I have to leave a room because it makes me nauseous. Don't get me started on food- tastes explode in my brain, and some are so strong that they make me physically sick. I don't eat much because doing so is actually unpleasant for me nine times out of ten.

"Oh, and let's go on to talk about hearing. I can hear the sound right now of the florescent bulb in your kitchen- it buzzes. Every noise- traffic outside, even at this hour, the dog you can't hear barking about five hundred meters from here to the left out the back of the flat. In a crowded room, every noise is amplified and comes in as one giant cacophony that I have to try to decipher and make sense of. I can even hear the fact that your mobile phone is recharging in the kitchen."

Greg looked at the young man in front of him with something akin to horror. "Shit," he said softly. "I always knew that Sam didn't like noises, but I didn't realise…"

This admission brought a tiny wry smile to Sherlock's lips. "I thought as much; whoever Sam is - a relative?"

Greg nodded and said, "nephew. Apparently, his dad has a brother with Aspergers, and the kid's been diagnosed, too."

"Your attitude was more…tolerant about my eccentricities from the start, which I didn't appreciate much at seventeen. Now I do."

Greg didn't reply. He figured that enough people would have made enough patronising comments to Sherlock to last a lifetime. He decided he wouldn't add to them by suggesting that he could understand what the young man sitting quietly in his wife's chair must be feeling.

"People don't understand that I have no choice in all this. It just is. The upside is that I can see things and understand things that normal people miss, and I've figured out what they mean when it comes to crimes. Putting the pieces together is something I can actually do with all that …stuff. I know it's the only thing that I will ever be truly gifted in doing, which is why I really, really want to do this work with you."

Greg nodded. "Well, I'm not going to argue; you know how much I appreciated your help two weeks ago in the Stevens case, not to mention bringing the Pountney stuff to me, and for saving my face at that pub. But, you don't need to be high to do that work; you were clean for three weeks while we put the case papers together."

Sherlock shrugged. "When I'm working, the demands of the case focus me, let me screen out the stuff that doesn't matter. That's why I  _need_  to do this; it's the only thing that has ever competed with cocaine. When there's nothing to focus on, then the only thing that gives me relief is to slow the dopamine reabsorption rate. I can do that with nicotine, caffeine and stimulants of various sorts.

"So, if your question was, why do I use cocaine? The answer is that when I found a drug that actually makes me capable of focusing, filtering out the extraneous stuff- well, halleluiah- I'm in seventh heaven. The downside is that it is a class A substance that the world decides is 'bad' for me."

"From my point of view, the reverse is true. Under the influence, I can actually manage to function in a crowd of people. I don't get overwhelmed by the noise, scent, even the sight of people. I am not scared that people are going to take exception to what I say or do, shout at me, bully me, or worse. I don't mind making eye contact, because I don't get stressed that I can't understand how people are going to react to me. When I take cocaine, it is the closest I can get to being normal. Ever notice that 'normal' people don't like 'abnormal' people? When I'm high, I'm not afraid. For the short time, I can actually pass for normal. So, that's the reason why."

Greg just sat, stunned by the revelation. Eventually, he asked, "have you told anyone this before?"

Sherlock just shook his head, sadly. "You don't get it, do you? If I weren't high at this very moment, then there is no way I could be having this conversation with you. Most therapists only ask me 'why' when I'm off the drug, and I can't begin to explain it. Doesn’t actually matter. No one wants to hear what I've just told you. It's far too logical. People expect cokeheads to be drug addled criminals. Because it isn't 'normal', people assume that I am taking cocaine as some sort of thrill seeking, that I'm after the euphoria, the kick. And, it's illegal, expensive, bad for my health and I am more likely to take risks. So they try to stop me."

"Cocaine has, from my point of view anyway, just the one downside – it's psychologically addictive; once I get the focus, the relief, then doing without becomes difficult. The physical side effects of withdrawal- headaches, nausea, agitation- well, a lot of that I have to live with all the time, even when I am not coming down from a high. There is another problem that is probably more serious- the more I take it, the less effect it has; my system needs more to achieve the same benefit. Sooner or later, the physical effects of upping the ante will probably kill me."

Greg took another long pull at his coffee, trying to figure out what possible response he could give to the young man's brutal honesty.

"What happens next?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock put his empty coffee mug down on the coffee table. He ran his hands through his hair and looked down at the carpet for a moment. "I need to sleep for a while. The odd thing is that when I am on cocaine, I actually sleep better than when I'm not. When is your wife back?"

"Not til Monday; her return flight lands at Gatwick at three forty five. You can stay here until Monday noon, as long as you don't do any more drugs."

Sherlock raised his head to look at the DI.

"No, Sherlock. I can't turn a blind eye to this. It isn't about you, OK? It's about me. I'm a senior officer in the Metropolitan Police Force. I can't have you here in my flat abusing a class A drug. But you are welcome to stay here and come down from it all. Give yourself a little time out. If you can stay off the drugs long enough, we might be able to work together on some cases. But there is no way in hell that I'll be able to do that if you don't get clean. I'm sorry- rules are rules, and I've already broken quite a few of them for you."

The young man just sighed, drew up his legs to his chest, and laid his head down on his arms. Greg remembered a night eight years before, when Sherlock had done the same. Greg got up and rummaged in the closet for a blanket and sheets. Then, on second thought, he got a pair of his soft pyjamas out of the drawer and dropped them onto the sofa, too.

"If those clothes are uncomfortable to sleep in, change into these. They'll be too big for you, but they're better than nothing, because the blanket will itch." There was no movement from the chair.

"Cheer up. At least this time, your brother isn't coming to pick you up."

Sherlock stirred and unfolded himself. He switched off the table lamp and said quietly, "I am grateful for small mercies, Detective Inspector. Good night."


	2. Chapter 2

When Greg woke up on Saturday morning, he found the young man in the kitchen, making coffee and scrambling eggs. "Eggs? I don't remember buying any eggs yesterday."

"You didn't; I went out and got some this morning. You really don't do the shopping very often, do you?"

"No, my wife prefers to do it."

"I can understand that, if your latest grocery run was anything to go by. You forgot to take her list with you. Beer and curry were not on it, but quite a few other things were that you missed. I took it with me, so she won't know." He put a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs in front of Greg. "Bread is in the toaster, and should be ready in a moment." He then turned to the sink and rolled up his sleeves, starting to wash up the pan.

"You didn't need to shop or cook for me; I could have done that."

"It gave me something to do. Actually, it was something of a challenge to get to the shops without getting onto any CCTV cameras. I needed something to keep me occupied. And cooking is no big deal; I'm a chemist, remember."

"Have you already eaten?" Greg mumbled as he took a forkful. The toaster popped up and he took the one slice, buttering it.

"No, I can't eat when I'm coming down."

This made Greg look more closely at Sherlock. "How awful is it?"

"Awful."

"What helps?"

Sherlock put the now clean pan in the dish drainer. "Keeping busy helps, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered with the shopping or cooking. I have just enough of the drug left in my system that I can cope with your neighbourhood convenience store. As the drug vacates my system, the only thing that will help is something intellectually challenging enough to distract me. I don't suppose you have a juicy triple murder that you would just  _love_  to talk about?"

"No; can't say that I do. Actually, the last two weeks have been surprisingly quiet. A bit of gang related stuff, but the Drug Squad is handling it. That's why I thought I could take the weekend off."

"Just my bad luck."

Greg gave him a little rueful smile. "Bad luck for you, maybe, but good luck for potential victims."

Sherlock turned back and looked at him. He didn't smile. He started to roll down his sleeves, and Greg took a look. There were the obvious needle track marks, but then…"Bloody hell- are those nicotine patches?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm. "Yes, obviously. You said I wasn't to smoke in the flat. I had a few cigarettes on the way to the shop, but got these at the chemist."

"Sherlock, there are  _three_  patches on your arm. You aren't supposed to do more than one; didn't you read the instructions? Nicotine overdoses are serious!"

He just sighed. "It's a proven fact that people on the spectrum are resistant to nicotine. Harder to get addicted to it, harder to get any effect of slowing dopamine reabsorption; we don't have the same number of nicotine neuroreceptors as you do. So, three patches." He gestured to his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. "and that's my third coffee."

"Christ, I'd be tap-dancing on the ceiling with all that in me," muttered Greg.

"Yeah, well, I told you I'm not normal, so can we talk about something else for a while? Or better yet, not talk at all." With that, he abruptly left the kitchen and went back into the living room, opening the newspaper and burying his head in it.

 _OK, irritability could be one sign of a cocaine crash_. Lestrade finished his breakfast and went off to shave and shower. While dressing, he turned on his laptop and had a quick run through some sites on addiction withdrawal. It made for depressing reading. But at least the process for cocaine withdrawal wasn't so physically brutal as from heroin or morphine.

When he got back into the living room, Sherlock was pacing. Twitchy with nerves, he was finding it hard to settle down. Greg tried to read the paper for a few minutes, but the fidgeting made it impossible. He just looked at Sherlock's pacing and asked mildly "I suppose chilling out in front of the TV or reading a book just isn't going to do it for you, is it?"

Sherlock snorted. "This is the worst part- feeling so cooped up. I can’t go out lest my brother spots me on CCTV, and he's got to the point now where he will recognise the withdrawal symptoms. He'll use that as an excuse to try to stick me into rehab. So, I have to 'disappear' for the weekend. I swear it is the worst part of this torture."

Greg got his laptop from the bedroom. "Try to find something distracting on that. Would prefer it not to be porn, just in case the wife gets curious." That invoked a snort, and a quiet "not my scene", but at least Sherlock sat down at the table.

oOo

"What would you normally be doing on a Saturday morning, Sherlock?" The question was mildly put, as Lestrade finished reading the paper and folded it up. The young man had been looking at Greg's laptop for the last hour. He looked up now, with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "What's Saturday got to do with anything?"

Greg looked equally puzzled. "I suppose it's the prejudice of a working man, but most of us normal mortals have something called a weekend, which means that Saturdays are 'me time'. What do you do for, I don't know,  _recreation_?" He sounded hopeful. Perhaps he could find something else to distract the young man.

Sherlock looked back at the laptop. "Beyond the obvious recreational use of drugs, nothing springs to mind as what you would call a 'pastime'. I don't have hobbies." Here he managed to sound both scathing of the question and dismissive of the very idea of something as tedious as a hobby. “If I were back at my flat, then I'd be doing experiments and working on various forensic chemistry papers that I have on the go. But, I can't get at the kit from here. By now, Mycroft will have staked out the premises, so going back there is not an option. So, no doubt in a few minutes, I'll just start to wear a hole in your carpet or try to avoid answering your inane questions."

Greg pursed his lips and thought about it. Aggressively rude- so the irritation must have gone up a notch.  _Oh, joy, just another 36 hours to go before I can escape back to work._  "OK, how's this going to play out, Sherlock? Are you just going to get more and more obnoxious as the day progresses? I have no idea what to say or do, what to suggest that you do to cope with…whatever this is doing to you."

Sherlock looked up again, puzzled. "Why would you care? The sensible thing would be go on and do whatever it was you had planned to do today. Just ignore me. It's better all round."

Greg thought about that for a while and was sorely tempted to beat a hasty retreat. But, he had offered to help, whatever that meant, and he wasn't a coward. "I guess you don't have any friends, do you?"

Sherlock didn't even look around. "What do you think, Lestrade?" He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I don't have 'friends' to go 'hang out with', if that's what you're asking. People like me don't have 'friends'. I don't 'play well with others', as the saying goes. Can't be bothered to put up with their idiocy." The sneer was plain to hear.

"Why don't you call me by my first name, Sherlock?"

"It wouldn't be professional- when we are working together on crime scenes you need to keep your authority intact. It wouldn't do to be seen to be treating me any differently that one of your team. But, just don't expect me to call you 'Guv' or any such nonsense. So, Lestrade it is."

Practical and actually sensible under the circumstances. But, Greg still felt a bit like he'd been rebuffed.  _Doesn't let anyone get anywhere near. Just like Sam._

Greg stood up and stretched. "Well, what I had planned for today was a ride on my motorbike. I'd be happy for you to ride along, if you want some fresh air."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "You have a motorbike." He blinked. "That's interesting; I would not have thought that of you." He then smirked. "I bet the wife just _hates_  it."

Greg looked a bit chagrined. "Yeah, well I did it a lot before I met her; haven't been able to get the Norton out as much recently as I'd like. Come along- I have an extra crash helmet, bought it in the mistaken belief I could convince Louise to take it up. The helmet means that your brother won't be able to identify you on CCTV. And you can wear one of my jackets which will help disguise you." He grinned when that got a smile from the young man.

"What sort of Norton?"

"Oh, you're a fan?" When Sherlock nodded, Greg went on. "She's a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger."

The young man's eyes widened. "OH, an antique! And rare as hen's teeth. How on earth did you get a desert scrambler made for the American export market?"

Greg tried not to look too smug. "Made in 1968, but when I bought it in 1989, it was lying in pieces in a box at the back of a south London garage, owned by a homicide victim. The widow was happy to sell it to me, and I spent the next decade restoring it."

So, Saturday passed in a blur off the back of a motorcycle. As distraction therapy went, it worked a treat on Sherlock. The novelty certainly helped. And being able to move freely in London without his brother being any the wiser was a great tonic. They went out the A40 towards Oxford. When he wanted speed, they'd do a stint on the M40, but the straight lines of the motorway were not as interesting as the more meandering path of the A road. Sherlock had obviously ridden before, and knew how to move his body weight in synch with Greg's when they cornered a sharp bend.

Greg stopped at the Kings Arms at Wheatley for lunch. He ordered a pint for himself, and asked if Sherlock wanted one. "No. I am not a fan of real ale- or beer for that matter. And alcohol in my current situation is not a good idea."

Greg ordered him a lime and soda. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock had to think. "Thursday- I had a take away."

Greg just closed his eyes for a moment.  _More than 48 hours ago; Christ, he's going to keel over._  "You will eat something now." He ordered two bowls of a hearty vegetarian stew and bread. "No arguments, Sherlock. I don't care how nauseated you might be feeling, I will not have you pass out on the back of my bike; you'll get yourself- and me- killed."

He managed to keep the meal down, but was feeling worse for wear by the time they got back. Greg had put the bike into the lock up garage, and was followed up the stairs by a silent Sherlock. He shrugged off the borrowed leather jacket, and stood looking down at the floor motionless, until Greg pointed him at the shower and told him to warm up. He was still silent over their simple meal of fried fish and chips. An hour later, he was in the loo throwing up. Greg just gave him a sympathetic smile when he emerged pale as a ghost. He'd made the sofa up and put out the pyjamas again, left a glass of water on the coffee table and left him to try to get some sleep. Sherlock hadn't said a word for three hours, and he didn't reply to Greg's "good night."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the request of Ghyllwyn, whose support and friendship I truly value, a second chapter today...

Sunday was worse. When Greg emerged from his bedroom, he found Sherlock wrapped up in the blanket sitting up on the sofa, but staring blankly into the room. He looked awful.

"Can you eat?"

Sherlock gave one tiny shake of his head, but avoided eye contact completely. Greg went to the corner shop and brought a paper back. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock had realised he was gone. The mug of black coffee he'd left behind had gone cold, untouched.

Greg sighed. An hour later, and the young man was still a picture of misery. It made Greg feel helpless. He just asked quietly, "what can I do to make this any easier on you?" Sherlock didn't look up. "Find me a case, Detective Inspector, or I think I shall go mad."

"Why does thinking about crime help? I don't get that. Explain it to me."

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he'd forgotten how to speak. His brow furrowed and he grimaced. "I don't know why; it just is. Ever since I was a child, it was always the puzzle that kept my interest. It's what I do. I figure things out, the relationship between the bits of data, the facts, what I see, smell, hear. I put it together with what I know, and can deduce and then, suddenly, the solution is clear. Working on it means I can shove aside all the other stuff coming in; I get excited, it helps me focus, and I think it must have a biochemical basis- release of adrenaline and endorphins or something. It's the only true pleasure I get. And if I'm thinking about a case, I don't think about anything else- how sick I feel, or hungry or in pain in some way. It's the only time I can actually ignore what I am feeling. I can't explain the sheer bliss of being able to focus." He sighed.

"So, if I were to bring you a pile of cold cases- ones that were never solved, could that work?"

That made Sherlock look up at him, for the first time all day. "Oh, yes, please."

So, Lestrade took the bike out again and drove into New Scotland Yard, pulled a dozen files from the cold case drawers and came home with them. Sherlock was dressed and pacing by the time he got home, and virtually threw himself onto the files. He scanned all twelve first, saying nothing. When Greg tried to say something, he just got a terse "shut up."

Within ten minutes Sherlock had separated them into four piles. Greg watched, with a puzzled look. He made himself a cup of tea, and then put one down on the coffee table beside Sherlock, who picked it up absently and drank it down without even shifting his focus from the first file that he was now reading in depth.

"What's with the piles?"

This time, Sherlock explained quickly, as if begrudging any time not focussing on the material in the file. "The first pile over there", he gestured at the files at the far left, "are so easy as to be idiotic, and not really worth the time to read them through."

Greg was scandalised. "Sherlock, repeated police investigations have failed to turn something up; you can't just dismiss them as 'too easy'. Gimme an idea what you think is involved."

"Later- when I get bored. Right now, I want to concentrate on the four cases here that are actually interesting. Once I've figured them out, in desperation, I will look at the others but only in ascending order of idiocy." He started to pull out the crime scene photos of the first file. He looked up for a moment. "Have you got some tape, or blu-tack? I need to put these up on a wall."

Greg looked scandalised. "Not on these walls you won't. Louise will kill me if you damage the paintwork. This is a customised paint blend that took her ages to get right."

"Oh, really, Lestrade. What's important here? Solving a crime or leaving a few marks on a wall?" His indignation was clear. So, too, was the fact that he seemed to have ten times as much energy now as he had before when he was sitting listlessly on the sofa wrapped up in the blanket feeling sorry for himself.

In the end, Sherlock did it on the tiled walls of the bathroom, and the glass shower door. A little cramped when it came to an evidence board, but Greg had to admit that it worked. He finished the first case before lunch. Greg stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Sherlock explained.

"The forensic team should be shot, Detective. It really is beyond belief that they could have missed the void in the blood spatter. I mean just look at it!" He gestured to the photograph.

"There was a man standing there against the wall- approximately 5 foot 8 inches, and a little overweight, too, given the space. The chief suspect, Robert Jones, was identified by DI Gregson, who by the way must be way overdue for retirement, given the egregious mistakes he made in the case, was clearly not the only culprit- he was over six foot and thin, given his sessions down at the gym. No, Lestrade, the obvious fact is that the murderer had an accomplice- the car valet from the hotel."

Greg looked utterly confused. "What hotel? I thought the crime took place at the victim's home?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do try to keep on the same page, Lestrade, really! The wife's statement makes it clear that her husband was trying to lose weight and tone up after a lifetime at a desk job. What he didn't realise at the time was that she was cheating on him with a gym instructor. So, when she bought him the leisure club membership  _at the hotel_ , the two lovers were hoping that he'd overdo it and have a heart attack. Every time he was at the gym, they were back home doing a different kind of gymnastics. The car valet was their lookout- he'd phone when the husband left the club, to give the lovers time to go their separate ways. A simple check of the phone records proves that much. But, the valet must have been greedy- probably tried to blackmail the instructor and/or the wife, but got in way over his head, so the trainer decided to take things in his own hands- literally, but he made sure that the car valet was there, too. The medical examiner got causes of death right- strangulation, after a stab to the throat."

Sherlock just laughed at this point, bringing his hands under his chin as if in prayer. "What your lot couldn't prove was that he did it when the wife and he both had an alibi. His was obviously false."

"How can you say that? It was checked and double-checked at the time. Surely, the team wouldn't have made such a mistake?"

"Of course they did. Police make mistakes all the time, Lestrade; they're idiots."

"Watch it, sunshine. Those are my colleagues you're talking about."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, if you are looking at me to say you're the exception that proves the rule, I can only attest to that on the cases where you've been smart enough to involve me."

"All right, smartass, I'll bite, why do you think the gym instructor's alibi is wrong? I mean that photo right there has him not at the house at the time of the murder. That's him at the gym at the time of the murder, which is clearly indicated on the gym CCTV. They had it installed after some thefts in the locker room. The instructor is leaving the locker room for his Thai kick-boxing class."

The tall youth just looked up into the bathroom mirror and caught Greg's eye, with a big smirk. "Well, beyond the obvious fact that the hotel car valet was the person to verify his presence at the gym, it's wrong because the gym instructor is right-handed, which is clear from the leisure centre staff photo over here. Just look- his watch on the left wrist, cuff worn on the right from writing – see the biro stain?- and, for God's sake, look at the musculature. This is a tennis player, and the shoulder muscles are huge on the right side compared to the left, after all those smashes and serves."

Greg still looked perplexed. "I don't get what his handedness has to do with disproving an alibi."

This made the young man lower his head into his hands for a moment. "In this case, you have not one but TWO pieces of evidence that not only the team investigating but now you, too, have overlooked. For God's sake, look at the CCTV picture!"

Greg looked blankly at the photo.

Sherlock sighed. "You see but you do not _observe_ ….The person in that photo is clearly LEFT handed- look at the way he is opening the door! Yes, the instructor teaches the boxing class regularly at that gym, but under all that kit- the white jacket, the gloves, the padded helmet, the boots on his feet, can you really identify him conclusively as the suspect? Or might it just have been another man with the same basic body shape and colouring?"

Greg took a closer look. "Now that you mention it…."

"So, go back and check the car valet's work records. You will find that he wasn't actually on duty at the time when he is supposed to have been there to verify the gym instructor's presence. And, he's probably the one who has the murder weapon. If you do it right, you'll probably get him to confess to being a blackmailer and to false testimony, rather than face a murder charge. And, you can even offer him immunity in exchange for providing the evidence that the gym instructor was the murderer."

Greg just looked at Sherlock; really looked, in amazement. Then he drew a deep breath. "It all sounds plausible. We'll check it out."

"Plausible? Is that the best you can do?" Sherlock looked affronted, if not outright insulted. He snarled, "Take this lot down and let me get going on the next one."

Greg did as he was told, but then decided to get something underway in terms of lunch. He pre-heated the oven and pulled the pizza from the freezer. He'd planned his weekend meals carefully to indulge each one of his favourite foods that he was never allowed to eat by his wife, who argued that they were 'unhealthy, unappetising, and downright common'. When it was ready, he brought a plate back into Sherlock who was head-down over the next file, with photos strewn across the coffee table. Without a word, he picked up the slice and bit off a big mouthful, his eyes still focused on the incident report.

He therefore didn't see the smirk on Greg's face. Clearly, if the young man's attention was elsewhere focused, he would eat. Make it a confrontation and he wouldn't. Sam was like that, too; he didn't like the social aspects of eating. He hoped that the drug withdrawal would not mean he'd lose this meal as he had last night's supper.

The first half of the afternoon passed quietly. Sherlock moved into the bathroom after about an hour of looking at the second file, and twenty minutes later, he called Greg in for an explanation. This one was even better than the gym instructor and the car valet. It involved a series of linked rapes on Clapham and Blackheath Commons, which escalated in brutality until the fifth one was killed. The police never managed to come up with a viable suspect. There was DNA evidence linking them but wasn't on file anywhere. Sherlock mapped the interval between the rapes, plotted the timetables and deduced that the perpetrator was in fact a janitor at a local comprehensive school; midterm breaks, early closing days, and snow closures linked up with the physical evidence on the crime scenes- same boot patterns and clothing fibre traces, which the original investigating team had said were 'common as dirt' in fact turned out to be exclusive to the contract company that supplied the janitorial staff.

Lestrade had a physical description ( _He's five eleven and about 180 lbs; probably has a back injury, because the footprint patterns show he's in pain_ ) and a choice of two comprehensive schools to consider- and was delighted.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, Sherlock had solved the other two files in the first pile. He seemed undaunted by the task of continuing on to the next pile. "These are easier- I'll be done with these four by six or seven at the latest."

Greg was still in a bit of shock. His brain was buzzing with trying to follow all the mental gymnastics required to keep up with Sherlock's deductions. He decided he needed a bit of air. "Want to come with me? Getting out of here might help."

Sherlock just waved him away. "No, no, no- might show up on CCTV and Mycroft will get excited. I'm happy to carry on." He raised his eyes briefly from the file he was engrossed in, "Do save me a cigarette or two from the pack you are going out to buy. I might have a smoke up on the roof later, when I want a break."

Greg gave a wry smile. That was exactly what he was planning to do, just didn't want to admit it. The nicotine patch on his arm itched. It had been there for nearly 24 hours, and he had promised himself on his "boy's weekend in" that he would eat, smoke and sleep in a way he didn't around his wife. Of course, at the time Louise had told him she would be away, he had no idea that he's be sharing the flat with a lanky genius coming down from cocaine but staving off withdrawal by fixating on cold cases. It was a strange old world, Lestrade mused as he walked to the nearest newsagent to buy his cigarettes.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're looking tired, Guv. Busy weekend?" DS Sally Donovan looked at the bags under her boss's eyes and worried a little. Usually, when Lestrade took a weekend off, it meant he returned to work refreshed and re-energised, happy to get stuck into work again.

"No." The monosyllabic reply caught her off guard. Even when he was grumpy, Lestrade didn't clam up, so something was definitely not right.

She started to open her mouth again.

"Just leave it, Donovan, I'm not in the mood."

Definitely not right. Lestrade did not talk about his private life at work, but she worried that something might have happened at home to put him in this mood.

He looked at her sternly. "I want you to organise a full team meeting in a half hour- everyone, including the forensic boys and girls. We're re-opening ten cold cases; I've got new leads."

When he got into his office, he opened his brief case and pulled out the pile of files. Twelve of the coldest cases his team had managed to fail to solve over the past five years, and he now had real leads and lines of enquiry on ten of them, and could close the other two. To say the weekend had been difficult would be an understatement, but that didn't mean it wasn't productive.

He closed his tired eyes, and drank from his coffee. His desk at New Scotland Yard was clear of anything personal, apart from one framed photo of Louise, which he glanced at now. She would be landing back at Gatwick at 3.45pm, and wanted him to come home early, "if possible; I know you can't predict when a murderer might strike, but it would be nice to think that you will have missed me." He decided that there was no way in hell he was going to tell her about his 'house guest'. If she asked what he had got up to over the weekend, he'd tell her everything about the motor bike jaunt, the cold cases on Sunday- but not that he'd shared the experience with a tall lanky young man with a drug problem.

Before he briefed the team, he needed to call the morgue. He'd promised Sherlock that he would get him access to a body that was reported on Friday morning- a John Doe fished out of the Thames at St Katharine's Dock near Tower Hill. The autopsy report should be ready, and Greg wanted his professional opinion as to whether it merited investigation as a homicide or a suicide. After this weekend, Lestrade had no qualms about asking him to do this.

"Brilliant!" was the reply and Sherlock's face had lit up like a Christmas tree. Lestrade gave a sigh of relief; it was a way to get him out of the flat with something to think about other than where to go to get another hit.

When he emerged from his office fifteen minutes later, it was to a full duty room. The officers looked expectant, so Lestrade decided to tell them upfront what he was feeling.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave them a scowl. "You …are a bloody useless lot." There were a few uncertain faces at that, a couple of sideways glances between them.

"I've spent the weekend going through twelve of the oldest, coldest cases we've got on file, and the only conclusion I can draw from the experience is that you are going to have to raise your game. If the reputation of this team were to be based on your performance on these cases, then we'd have to pay back some of the wages you've been banking over the past five years. Now, I know that some of you have joined the team since these cases were filed as 'cold', but that's no excuse. We've had plenty of quiet times when you were encouraged to revisit these files. "

There were a few rumbles in the back, quiet snatches of conversation between team members.

"Don't believe me? OK, let me walk you through the twelve cases I checked out on Sunday, in descending order of stupidity. We'll start by taking the one in 1998, where the body of Harry Jameson ended up on the roof of a block of flats in Hackney. He was beaten to hell and gone. No suspect, no ideas. Remember that one?" He glared at Anderson, the chief forensics officer –both then and now. "A simple look around the crime scene would have revealed how the body got there. Look at this photo and tell me what you see." He projected it from his laptop onto the incident room's whiteboard. Silence fell.

Greg just looked them. He put his hand to his forehead in disbelief. "You really don't see it, do you?!" No one made a sound.

"OK- prepare to feel foolish. Take a look at the apartment block next door. That one…" he gestured to it. "See the crane? This is a  _suicide_  guys, not a homicide. Harry had gambling problems but wanted to leave his wife with some insurance money, so he took the easy way out, but did it so no one would be the wiser to his topping himself. The Monday morning construction team started up the crane as usual without thinking about the body on the roof below, which they wouldn't have been able to see, swung the crane back into action. And you never even thought about it when the body was discovered up there on Tuesday."

He raised another folder up and shook it at them. "Here's another accidental death that was wrongly attributed as a homicide. Anderson, I want you to pick that one up, and close it  _properly_  this time." He then gestured to the pile of ten folders left on the table in front of him. "There are ten folders left. Divide them up between you and read the notes inside. Every last one of these has new leads to be followed up, and tracked down, because one or more of you missed something crucial. I want a report from you by four o'clock today on progress." And with that, he walked out, leaving a room of stunned detectives behind.

"Flipping heck, Sally! Lestrade's wife should go away more often if he's going to do that kind of work when he's on his own." This came from DI Gregson, whose eyes widened as he digested the note at the front of the Robert Jones file. "The car valet? Who would have thought it? You and I've got our work cut out for us, trying to dig him up after six years."

From behind the blinds in his office, Lestrade watched with a grin as the various officers picked through the files and got to work. He wished that Sherlock could have been here to see their looks of incredulity. On the other hand, he was glad that the young man was happily ensconced in the morgue, puzzling over a cadaver. He might not have been able to cope with the smugness of Sherlock's smile otherwise.

By lunchtime, the room was buzzing with officers coming in and out; phones were going, and the white board had been commandeered to list each of the ten cases, with officers assigned, leads listed and status updates being made. It was a hive of industry that made Lestrade smile.

He decided to celebrate by going for a sandwich at his favourite place in St James. On his way, he texted Sherlock.

**12.38pm Noses to grindstone here, much embarrassment. Any progress at Barts?**

**12.39pm Fascinating! Homicide suspected; will advise on progress when I get the corroborating evidence from crime scene. SH**

**12.40pm WHAT crime scene?!**

**12.41pm Based on tide and current patterns, body dumped in Thames at Blackfriars; tar on body traced to construction site at Rennie Street. Taking samples now. SH**

**12.42pm SHERLOCK! Don't touch anything! I'm calling a forensics team in now.**

**12.42pm Who, the idiots who can't tell a suicide from a homicide? SH**

Before Lestrade could hit the speed dial for the office, his phone pinged again.

**12.43pm Don't worry.  I'll bring evidence to NSY.  SH**

By now, Greg was standing in the middle of the pavement looking at his phone in disbelief. For that reason alone, he did not spot the two men who approached behind him, until one of them placed his hand on the detective's shoulder. He spun around, startled, and looked into the cold eyes of a suited man. With a copper's instincts, he knew that the man was carrying a concealed weapon.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, your presence is required. Do please get into the car." He gestured to the black car that pulled up to where they were standing.

Greg looked at the two of them. "Who are you?" he asked mildly, but he already had a suspicion he knew. He recognised the second man from Friday's attempt to corral Sherlock.  _One of Mycroft Holmes' 'minions', as Sherlock would say._

"My name doesn't matter. You met the man I work for some eight years ago when he collected his brother from your police station. You'd best oblige us by coming quietly."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I have been authorised to advise you that the next call he makes will be to the Detective Assistant Commissioner, who will ensure that you do comply."

Greg sighed. No point in raising everyone's blood pressure. He raised his hand in defeat. "Let me finish dealing with this text, then I'll come willingly."

**12.45pm Big Bro wants a word with me.**

There was no reply to his text.  _Shit_. Lestrade pondered that silence for the next twenty minutes, as the car made its way across Westminster Bridge and along York Street. He guessed where they were going about ten minutes into the journey- probably, Rennie Street.


	5. Chapter 5

When the government car pulled off York onto the narrow road running north to the river, Greg saw the construction site. The office block going up was suspiciously silent, no evidence of work going on. The car pulled onto a freshly tarmacked driveway into the site and one of the agents in the car got out and shut the chain link fences behind them. The DI was escorted out of the car and across to the temporary offices of the site. The one who had chased Sherlock opened the door to the portakabin and gestured him in.

At the end of the rectangular room stood Mycroft Holmes, in a three piece suit that whispered of Jermyn street custom tailoring; he was looking down at the handle of an old fashioned, tightly furled umbrella. He raised his eyes to meet Greg's as he came up to the table in the middle of the room, which was covered in blueprints and computer print-outs.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, we meet again." This was delivered in a mild tone that nevertheless somehow conveyed both a sense of disappointment and menace.

Lestrade's internal radar was flaring, but he decided that he could be afford a little heat in his response.

"Mycroft Holmes. I'd like to say that this is a pleasure, but, it isn't. I'm a busy man in the middle of a series of investigations and I do object to being kidnapped off the street in broad daylight. If you wanted to talk to me, the civilised way would be to have your PA set up an appointment."

This provoked a chilly smile. "No time, I am afraid. I hoped to get here while Sherlock was still on the scene, but alas, someone seems to have tipped him off, and he's off camera again."

Mycroft continued. "I would like you to listen very carefully, Detective Inspector. I suspect and I can prove that Sherlock has recently spent time in your company, and that you have been aiding and abetting his penchant for sticking his nose into police work that he should not be doing. Not only is it inappropriate that a civilian be engaged in such work, it is also harmful to him on a personal basis. This morning my brother decided to emerge from the shadows, and willingly allowed me to trace his movements to St Barts' morgue and then here. My guess is that he thinks he is 'investigating' something that you probably asked him to look into. You needn't reply; I know that I'm right."

Greg looked at the elder Holmes. The intervening years had removed the youthful freshness that the detective had seen at the police station when Mycroft collected a seventeen year old Sherlock. His hair now receded further at the temples, and he wore thirty or more pounds of extra weight to go with the added levels of authority that he was exuding. Greg realised that if he had thought big brother to be mildly alarming the first time they met, to look at him now was quite frankly scary.

"What business is it of yours what I might or might not be doing with Sherlock?"

Mycroft tilted his head and gave a wry smile. "Oh, it's  _definitely_  my business, Detective Inspector. I am still his legal guardian. And he is now a person who attracts the protection of both SOs 1 and 6*, so his movements are very carefully monitored, as are those with whom he has contact. May I ask what your… relationship is with my brother?"

Lestrade decided that a straight bat was needed. "He spent the weekend on my sofa withdrawing from cocaine."

"And just why would  _you_  be willing to offer such….hospitality?"

Greg's brow furrowed. He knew he needed to be careful here. "You do know, or at least I think it's safe to assume you know, about how he approached me to deal with the Pountney Club?"

Mycroft just waved his hand. "Of course, and I assume that some sort of case has brought him here. I took the precaution of clearing the site, but we've still not been able to locate him. I believe I also have you to blame for getting him involved in solving that pathetic Stevens thing, too."

That made Greg annoyed. "Pathetic? No, that's not what I call it. Sherlock's ability to pick apart a crime scene and make sense of it is unique. He is gifted, and I've been fortunate enough to see that talent in action. He enjoys it. He says it keeps him sane. After this weekend, I believe him. And, in light of those talents, I thought it wise to help him get off the drugs, especially after I witnessed on Victoria Street the fact that he wants nothing to do with you or your men."

Holmes gave Lestrade a thousand meter stare- the sort that would have lesser men quailing in their boots. "I hate repeating myself, but it has been eight years, so perhaps your memory needs refreshing. I do not have the luxury of caring what my brother  _wants_ , Detective Inspector; I must consider what he  _needs_. And that does not include any involvement with the police regarding homicides, drugs dealing or crime scene forensics. All of the above encourage his less desirable behaviours, his recent drugs relapse being a case in point."

He looked down and examined his umbrella again. "So, consider this a  _cease and desist_   _order_ , Mr Lestrade. However useful he might have been for your career in the past, you will not contact him again, nor will you involve him in any of your future work. In fact, any contact at all, even on a …personal basis…. will result in unfortunate consequences you might describe as career limiting."

Greg considered this threat very, very carefully. He had no doubt that the man standing in front of him could destroy his career. But, he also knew that the elder Holmes had no idea what made his brother tick. No one who could have seen Sherlock devour the cold cases could be so blasé about the good he was doing, and the good it was doing for him. Greg decided to risk a little.

He took a deep breath and plunged right in. "You haven't a clue about how to handle your brother, do you? I could tell that when you picked him up eight years ago. You were 24 and totally unaware of what it meant to be a parent, let alone one to someone like Sherlock. I have no doubt that he has driven you to distraction a thousand times, and every time, you're left wondering what you might have done differently in order to get a more satisfactory outcome."

Mycroft looked at him with a slightly puzzled look. "Is this an attempt to establish some  _empathy_ , Detective Inspector Lestrade? If so, save the sentiment for those who can afford to show it. You have no idea about my brother's history, nor what his …prognosis is."

"Ah, well there's where you're wrong, Mr Holmes. I know his reasons for taking drugs, which I am certain he has never, ever shared with you, nor any of the therapists you have subjected him to while in rehab. I know he is autistic, I know he has SPD, I know he has reasons to want to avoid you like the plague. I know because he has told me these things. I also know he's smart enough to work his way out of any rehab clinic you care to stuff him into, and then go out and do immediately what you don't want him to do, because he's a right bolshie little bugger who thinks he knows better, but doesn't."

Mycroft was now eyeing him like he was some sort of dangerous reptile- with wary suspicion.

Greg decided to carry on.  _Might as well get hung for a sheep, as for a lamb._  "I also know that I share with you a deep dismay at the thought that such a mind could be destroyed by a cocaine habit. Unlike you, I know a magic bullet that stops his cravings cold, gets him to eat, sleep and …" he took a deep breath,"…I know what makes him genuinely happy."

Mycroft's cynical smile was matched by his acerbic tone: "He says he has found happiness at the end of a needle, and that I should just leave him to it. I won't do that, no matter what he says."

"Then maybe you haven't seen the Sherlock I've seen- the one who was clean and worked like a demon for three solid weeks with a Met task force to get cases ready for prosecution. Cases that he identified even though they'd never been reported. You didn't watch him this weekend pull himself out of a withdrawal funk because I gave him twelve of the coldest cases the Yard had. You didn't see his genius at solving those in a single day, and I  _know_  you didn't see the absolute joy he took in doing so. I did. So, forgive me, but I think I just might have a better idea of what your brother  _needs_  right now than you do."

A silence fell between the two men. It was broken as the door to the portakabin opened and a baritone voice said, "Mycroft, really. Just for once in your life, listen to someone else, if you won't listen to me."

Sherlock came in and stood next to Lestrade. "He's telling the truth."

For a moment, Mycroft just looked at Sherlock,  _really_  looked. Greg realised that both the Holmes brothers appeared to share the same ability to see things that other people missed. Mycroft was examining Sherlock with a forensic intensity. Then, he frowned. "You're  _still_  in withdrawal, after three days of abstinence. So, it was a serious binge this time, little brother."

Sherlock met his stare with a defiance of his own. "That was then, this is now. Let's talk about the now. I mean it, Mycroft, just leave me alone. This is good for me; for once, just once, let me be the judge of it." He was livid but there was just the hint of a plea in his tone.

Mycroft looked at his brother with a sad smile. "He may have convinced you of that, Sherlock, because it is in his best interests to do so. He's abusing your talents to further his own career. The Detective Inspector is taking advantage of a vulnerable person for his own personal gain, which is highly unethical and borders on unprofessional conduct. A disciplinary hearing would also question his …sanity at involving on crime cases a drug addict with your record. It could jeopardise every court case that had you touched. All that aside, it's putting you at risk, this…puzzle work. The more he gets you to work on his cases, the more he puts at risk both your physical and mental health. He should know better."

Greg was aghast. How could Sherlock's brother level that kind of charge at him? For a moment, he panicked at the thought that others might see it the same way. "I was trying to  _help_..." he whispered lamely.

Sherlock just snarled at his brother. "You insufferable prig, Mycroft; you're despicable to accuse him of such a thing!  _I_  was the one who came to Lestrade; if anyone is being manipulative here, it's me! You know that, so don't play your mind games now. He's a good man, and won't understand why you'd say such an awful thing. It isn't  _fair_."

Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock whirled around in utter frustration, and slammed his fist into the wall. He started to shout, "Just back off, and let me do this! Why can't you get it into your head that it's the only thing that I actually care about, it's the only thing that anyone is ever going to respect or admire me for? I have so little else, how dare you try to take this away, too!" He was shaking with rage.

Mycroft calmly contemplated the sight. He put his umbrella on the table and closed the distance between him and his brother. Taking his left wrist in a firm grip, he turned Sherlock around to face him and then took his right wrist in the same hold. He said quietly but firmly, "Stop this now, Sherlock, withdrawal is pushing you into a melt-down."

For a second, Sherlock refused to look at Mycroft and just drew ragged breaths; but then he suddenly shoved his brother back hard against the table. Instinctively, Mycroft let go of his brother to stop himself from falling, and in that moment, the tall brunet just burst out of the door and down the stairs, knocking over the agent outside, who slipped on the construction site mud, and went down on one knee. Mycroft recovered his balance and shouted, "Stop him!" but Sherlock had already vanished into the half- built building shell by the time Mycroft got to the door and down the metal stairs. Lestrade followed behind him.

"Damn!" Mycroft's expletive echoed Lestrade's own reaction.

Greg's comment, "Well, that didn't end well, did it?" earned him a withering look from the elder Holmes, who snapped "if you ever have anything more to do with my brother, I swear I will destroy you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: *SO6 (Special Operations Six) is the unit of the Metropolitan Police which is responsible for diplomatic protection ( AKA DPG). SO1 is "Specialist Protection". While most of us think of the DPG as protecting foreign embassy and consulate staff and their families, it also gives the same undercover armed protection to members of the UK government, civil servants and others who are considered to be "at risk" due to the nature of their work, as does SO1. Mycroft would qualify, and Sherlock would be designated as a protected family member. It is highly likely however that Mycroft would prefer his own people to look after Sherlock on a more intensive basis than would be possible under police protection.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg Lestrade made it back to his flat in time to greet Louise, arriving at almost exactly the same time as her taxi back from Gatwick did. That evening she regaled him with stories about her hen weekend in Spain, still in holiday mode. When she asked politely what he had gotten up to while she was enjoying the sunshine, he just told her about the bike trip on Saturday and the cold case review on Sunday. She wrinkled her nose, "sounds  _so_   _boring"_  was her only comment. He found his thoughts wandering back to the events of the afternoon and Sherlock's shared enthusiasm for his police work.  _For some of us, it's anything but boring_. But, he realised that it was a taste that his wife had never acquired, more's the pity.

He couldn't help but be worried about Sherlock. With his brother now more determined than ever to find him, Greg wondered how much longer the young man would be able to evade capture. He kept replaying the times that Sherlock and he had worked together, questioning his own motives for falling in quite so easily with the cases that had been brought to him. Were his motives 'pure'? Why did he agree quite so readily to involving him more than he would any normal civilian who brought him information about a homicide?

He had to admit that his involving Sherlock had benefited his career. He couldn't deny that charge from Mycroft. But, his willingness to listen to Sherlock was based on his respect for the quality of the information and the young man's appreciation of the police's need to corroborate evidence and present it properly to the Crown Prosecution Service. On that, Greg was sure that he had not crossed any professional boundaries that could call into question subsequent convictions. Sherlock was meticulous in not exposing the Met to anything like that.

He kept one ear on Louise's story about a pub crawl in Marbella, whilst he pondered Mycroft's other charge- that by "enabling" Sherlock's case work, he was threatening the mental and physical health of the young man. That was a harder one. His sympathy toward the Sherlock's predicament was borne of his own nephew's affliction. Autism was not easy on his parents, who struggled with his anti-social behaviour, his tantrums, his unwillingness to engage with people. A lot of their friends had dropped the couple from their regular family activities as a result, because Sam was just so difficult to handle in a crowd of kids. Greg had always been willing to try with Sam, even volunteering to babysit, because so few people were, and his sister adored him for making the effort.

So, when he realised the very first time he met him that Sherlock was a high functioning ASDie, it made him more open to listening to the young man and helping him. And, it could not be denied, Sherlock was a genius when it came to deducing what happened at crime scenes. He found it hard to reconcile his image of Sherlock revelling in the cold cases with Mycroft's dismissal of the process as 'puzzles' that endangered his physical and mental health. He supposed it was all rather academic now, as he was highly unlikely to ever even see Sherlock again. He sighed.

"Christ, Greg- you look like someone just died. Is my story boring you so much that you can't even attempt to sound interested?"

That shook him out of his reverie. "I'm so sorry; it's just been a long day."

She pouted. "It's always a long day with you, Greg. I just wish you could lighten up once in a while and not bring your work home with you." She cleared away the supper dishes and disappeared into the kitchen. He sighed again.

oOo

Two days later, Greg was still managing the team's work on the ten cold cases, all of which had become "hot" as a result of Sherlock's work, and his officers' further investigations. He'd put the body at St Katharine's dock case on hold; not enough resource to try to dig something up at the building site on Rennie Street, and the body was still unidentified.

Heading up from the St James' tube station toward the Yard, he realised he was being followed. He stopped at a restaurant window as if he were looking at the menu, but instead used the glass to reflect back to him an image of his pursuer- a young skinny girl, couldn't be more than fifteen. She looked a bit grubby, and he thought she might be sleeping rough. She realised he had spotted her and smirked, walking straight up to him.

"Hi, you're the Filth, otherwise known as DI Lestrade, and I have something for you." It was said quietly, and she pointedly turned her back to the street shielding her hands from view before she reached into her jacket and handed over a brown envelope. "Keep it tucked up, will ya? Lest BB sees." She flicked her eyes towards the street. Lestrade realised that she was looking at a CCTV camera reflected in the glass, and realised her reference to BB meant big brother. Because of the shadows cast by their bodies, what they were doing would not be seen on camera. She turned to go.

"Wait just a moment, young lady! Who is this from?"

"Siggy"

When Greg looked blank, she continued, "You know, tall, skinny, dark hair in a mess. He said you'd know."

"OH… that 'Siggy'." Must be a reference to his old fake ID name- Lars Sigurson. Sherlock.

"Uh, thanks. Is he OK?" Greg tried to keep his tone casual to match hers.

She gave him a guarded look. "What's it to you?"

Greg just shook his head. "Just give him my best regards, will you?"

"Yeah, if I see him again, I'll do that. Bye now."

He went into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a strong espresso before opening the envelope. Four sheets of paper, all but the first one filled with handwriting. An old fashioned carefully written script, but after the first few lines, Greg got the hang of deciphering it. And his brow was furrowed in dismay, by the time he finished the second paragraph.

_Detective Inspector Lestrade_

_Please accept my apologies for the way my brother behaved to you when we three last met. He made a number of insinuations that I must address. Lest there be any misunderstanding, I have enclosed with this note a full description of every case that I have brought to your attention, the role I played in them and how carefully I have endeavoured to ensure that all correct police procedures and evidential requirements were followed. I have had this note witnessed by two people, and notarised so it will stand up in court should you ever have the need to defend your actions. I am certain that there will be no issues regarding the safety of the convictions which resulted from your team's work, as both you and I are fully aware of the requirements of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and police protocols. You have at no point acted unethically, unprofessionally or unkindly; the opposite is true. My brother was quite wrong in suggesting otherwise._

_On a personal note, can I reassure you that nothing that subsequently occurs should be in any way construed as relating to you. You are in no way responsible for what I am doing. It is a matter between my brother and me. In fact, I wish it to be known that had you been able to maintain contact with me as we both had hoped, then it might not have come to such an outcome. However, he has left with me with no choice, and I want to be known that what I do is because of him and his unwillingness to allow me any freedom at all._

_I hereby authorise you to show a copy of this letter and the attached document to my brother should he at any point threaten or take any adverse action against you. Should it prove insufficient to deter him, I advise you to telephone my solicitor at the number on the yellow note attached below. Once you have contacted him, he will send a copy of a file* which he has on record to both yourself and to my brother, with the intent of publishing it unless Mycroft Holmes desists from whatever action he may be taking against you. It should prove sufficient deterrent._

_I have respected your professionalism, and your personal kindness to me, but remain fully responsible for my own actions. It is with regret that I have to say goodbye,_

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_PS. The body in the Thames is James McArthur, and he worked for the construction company at Rennie Street._

The formality of the letter surprised him. It was the sort of letter one might expect to read in a court case, or where there was public scrutiny being made of private actions. For a few minutes, Lestrade tried to puzzle through what it all meant. That Sherlock was making sure that his brother would not harm him- that much he could read. But what was he saying underneath the legal language? Greg was troubled, and worried. It all sounded so final. Too final.

 _Oh, shit- this is a suicide note._  He looked up in a state of panic to see the normal morning commuters in the queue, ordering their coffees and preparing for their normal working day. For a moment, he could not catch his breath for wondering what the hell he could do to stop the process that the letter promised, if one just read between the lines. He closed his eyes for a moment.  _Please, God, don't let me too late to stop this._  Then Greg gathered his things up and fled the coffee shop.

He ran to the office, and as soon as he crossed the threshold called out to the reception desk- "I need a car  _immediately_  and a driver; there's a crime in progress!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Author's Note: If you want to know what is in this file, read my story Side Lines, when the secret about Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship is uncovered.


	7. Chapter 7

With an instinct that Lestrade would struggle to explain later, he instructed the driver to head south of the river to Rennie Street. Two days after his meeting with Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes there, the site was once again buzzing with activity. The police car tore into the site, siren and lights blazing, and he leapt out of the car almost as it finished rolling to a halt. He ran up the stairs of the portakabin site office, and burst in. The architect and site manager were deep in conversation over a set of plans on the table, and looked up, startled.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police. I have reason to suspect a crime has been committed on this site, and I need to know if anyone here knows someone by the name of James McArthur."

The two men exchanged glances. One of them spoke up. "McArthur is the quantity surveyor for the site. He's been off work for the past week. We've called his office; they haven't seen him either. Neither his home number nor his mobile are being answered. Has something happened to him?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that yes, I do know where he is- he's dead and his body is at St Bartholomew Hospital's mortuary. His body was recovered from the river downstream at St Katharine's Dock."

They looked stunned. The site manager recovered first. "How on earth did he die?"

"That's what we are trying to figure out. There's been a suggestion that he was murdered. Would you have any idea why that might be the case?"

"James? Murdered? That's…preposterous. The guy was just a quantity surveyor, for Christ's sake. You know, they count bricks and estimate how much concrete we need to build the next floor. I mean there's no way it could be work related. Could it have been an accident? "

Lestrade had no time to waste, so he decided to cut his losses at the site. "Have you got a home address? Or a phone number? I could really do with either right now." He needed to find Sherlock before it was too late, and instinct told him the fastest way was to follow the clues to the murder; He just might be able to catch up with a live Sherlock while he was still on the case.

It was the architect who thumbed through his contacts on his phone. "His home number is 0270-493 6869. Don't have an address."

"Thanks, I'll give you an update when I know more." And with that Lestrade strode out of the office, his phone already up to his ear. "Sally- get me a street address for the phone number 0270-493 6869. As quick as you can- it's a matter of life and death."

He was back in the car when she came back on the line. "It's SE17. That's in Southwark- Walworth, in fact, Guv- Number six, block E, Peabody Buildings, off 46 Rodney Road- about 10 to 12 minutes from where you are now."

He repeated the address to the driver and told him to get there as soon as humanly possible. The police car hit Rennie Street with lights and sirens on full and tore off, the mid-morning traffic scattering to the right and left as they ploughed their way across south London. The roundabout at Elephant and Castle slowed them a bit, but they made it up on the New Kent Road, before cutting off on Rodney Place and then left onto Rodney Road. Block E was the first of ten blocks of flats in the estate, built by the Peabody Trust in the 1960s. Number six was up on the third floor, the top of the low rise building. He banged on the door, but there was no answer. He gestured to the constable who had come up with him. "No ram, and no time to get a building supervisor up here. So let's do this the old fashioned way." Together they kicked at the door on the side with the lock. On the fourth attempt, the lock gave way, and Lestrade shouldered the door open.

He wasn't sure what he expected to find. After all, the body of the owner was already on a morgue slab at St Bart's. A quick scan around the living room revealed nothing out of the ordinary. James McArthur was a tidy man. It was when he started down the hall to the kitchen that he stopped, shocked by what he saw. There was an envelope pinned to the kitchen door, held there by a steak knife stabbed right into the wood door. And on the envelope he could read the handwritten words "DI Lestrade". With a chill, Greg recognised the handwriting from the letter he'd read in the coffee bar not an hour before.  _Sherlock has been here._

He ripped open the envelope. Two sheets of paper, the first of which was a copy of an invoice but the second had a scrawled note in a now familiar handwriting:

"I hate leaving things unfinished. So here is the evidence you need to track down McArthur's killers. He organised the subcontractor for the driveway and private roads around the building site, to a McHafferty Tarmacadam Services company, based in Liverpool. He was working a scam on his employers- invoicing with vat, and then paying ex-vat and pocketing the difference. Apparently the boys from the blackstuff realised it and demanded a cut. When he refused, they tarred him and chucked him in the river. The post mortem results show he was still alive when he went in- cause of death was drowning. So, maybe they just wanted to scare him and it went wrong? Took three days for the body to drift downstream and end up in St Katharine's Dock. Check out invoice racks in site office- especially binder F- you'll find the evidence there if you compare with McHafferty's versions. Sorry, this is a bit rushed, but I thought you would like to know. Consider this a little thank you case. SH"

 _Oh, Sherlock –where are you?!_  Greg didn't want a solution to yet another case; he wanted to find Sherlock before he did something foolish. The DI had hoped this case would keep him going until he could catch up with him, and make sure he didn't deliver on the threat left between the lines of his letter to him. Now that the case was solved, he had absolutely no idea where Sherlock would go if he intended to do what the letter implied he was considering.

 _THINK- how would Sherlock commit suicide?_  That didn't take much effort- even he knew that it would be most likely through a drug overdose- and injected cocaine was most likely.

But where? Where would he go to do it? Presumably, he was living rough at the moment, because he said that Mycroft was staking out his flat. He could be anywhere- an underpass beneath any busy London road, an out of the way place where homeless people gathered to spend their nights. London was full of abandoned buildings, tunnels, old houses which had not yet been touched by regeneration, but were considered fair game for squatters.

He was getting a stress headache. He wished he had a cigarette. It would calm him and help him to focus. He simply didn't have the resources to explore every possible place where Sherlock might have decided to end it all. Unfortunately, he knew a man who did- or at least could use the CCTV networks all over London to try to spot him. He hated the thought of ratting out Sherlock to his brother, but if the choice was a dead Sherlock or an angry one, he knew which one he preferred.

On the other hand, he had no idea how to contact Mycroft Holmes; only that he worked for a little known department that had official ties to the Cabinet Office, MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. Apart from ringing a switchboard at one of the other organisations, he had no idea how to reach him; it wasn't the sort of outfit to be listed in directory enquiries. He sighed, and took a deep breath.

He got on the phone to the office. "Donovan, send over two of the team to deal with a new case- James McArthur- that's the body that washed up in St Katharine's dock last Friday." He read out the address. "And I need the phone number of a man who is difficult to contact- Mycroft Holmes. Start at the Cabinet Office. Text me when you've got it."

He told the PC to stay put and brief the team when they showed up at the flat. He then went out to the car and told the Constable there to wait a moment. "I'm going across the road here to that newsagent because I desperately need a cigarette. I'll be back in a minute."

Rodney Road was a busy thoroughfare, so he walked down to the pedestrian crossing, and waited for the lights to change, then came back up the road to the newsagent. It was a typical south London corner shop, run by a smiling Asian middle-aged man. Greg asked for a pack of twenty Silk Cut cigarettes. The newsagent obliged and took his five pound note. As he rummaged in the till for change, he commented. "We don't get many customers asking for that brand; a bit posh for around here, if you know what I mean." Greg just looked up briefly and then went back to his thoughts about where Sherlock might have gone. As the man handed over the coins, he said cheerily. "Then, just like London buses, suddenly two in a single hour!"

Greg pocketed the coins and headed for the door. And then stopped. He turned around to ask the newsagent, "Could you please describe the other customer who bought them?"

"Tall, dark hair, late teens or early twenties. Didn't say anything other than to ask for the brand; wanted the smallest pack- just five smokes."

Greg's eyes lit up. "Just how long ago?"

The newsagent thought about it. "Don't know, maybe a half hour?"

"OH, thank you!" and with that Greg dashed out to the pavement and looked across Rodney Road at the block of flats in which James McArthur had lived. It had a flat roof. Some hunch of Greg's breathed a "YES", and he tore off directly across the road, dodging the traffic and then into the stair well. This time, he didn't stop at the top floor where Flat Number Six was, but carried on up to the roof.

When he came through the door, the area in front of him was empty. The view, however, was to the south, and rather mundane. He went around the corner of the doorway, and looked north, where the whole of the London skyline was visible- From Canary Wharf at the far right, all the way to Westminster's Houses of Parliament, with the City's skyscrapers and St Paul's Cathedral in between.

He tore his eyes off the view and looked back at the low wall around the block of flats' water tank. There sitting on the ground, with his legs stretched out in front of him, was Sherlock. His head was down on his chest, as if asleep, his arms lying lax beside him. Greg saw on the ground three cigarette ends, smoked right down to the filter, and then the two discarded syringes.  _Oh, shit._

His phone was in his hand and dialling 999 before he even bent his knee to put a hand to Sherlock's neck, feeling for a pulse. There was one- but it worried Greg almost as much as if there hadn't been one, because it was going at a rate that was ridiculously fast. He shook Sherlock's shoulders and called out his name. Sherlock feebly tried to push his hands away. His eyes were open but there was nothing but a vacant look in them.

Greg laid him out flat, as he barked "ambulance" in reply to the question "which service do you require?" and he was put through to the Emergency Control Room. "I'm a police officer- there's a person down with suspected lethal cocaine overdose; send an ambulance to 46 Rodney Road, SE17, the roof of Peabody Buildings Block E. Hurry!"

The control room call handler said briskly "stay on the line, and we will help you take any emergency first aid needed before the ambulance team arrives."

"I'm switching you onto speaker phone, so I can help him."

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes- too quickly; it's more like panting."

"Are his eyes open? Is he responsive to your voice?"

"Yes to the first, not really to the second"

"Check his pupils please."

"Dilated – incredibly, can hardly see any iris at all."

"What makes you think it was a lethal dose?"

"Suicide note and there are TWO empty syringes on the ground here."

"OK, we need to assume the worst. What's his temperature?"

Greg was confused. What difference did that make? Still, he felt Sherlock's forehead with his hand. It was burning up. "He's HOT, very hot- and sweaty, now that you mention it."

"Have you got any way to cool him down in a hurry? He's in danger of stroke, cardiac arrest or respiratory failure."

"I'm on a roof, but have access to the flat one flight down. Should I leave him to get ice or water or something?"

"Can you end this call, and use your phone to try to get a neighbour's help to come to you? Keep track of his pulse and breathing- DON'T leave him!"

He did just that, phoning through to the PC he'd left in Number Six, who came dashing up the stairs with a bottle of cold water and a tea towel full of ice. Lestrade soaked Sherlock's hoodie and T shirt, then held the tea towel on Sherlock's chest, while keeping his fingers against an artery, which was standing out against the pale flesh of his neck. By this time, he'd reconnected to the control room call handler.

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body, and then his muscles began to contract in jerks. "He's seizing!"

The calm voice of the dispatcher told him to make sure he didn't hurt himself; put him in the recovery position to keep his airway clear, use something to cushion his head, but don't restrain him. "The medics will want to know how long the seizure is, so check your watch. Don't panic; it looks worse than it is, unless it goes on for too long."

Greg could hear the sound of a siren in the distance.  _Please be our ambulance and not someone else's._ When it turned onto Rodney Road and came around the sharp bend. Sherlock's convulsion suddenly stopped and Greg sighed in relief, until he realised that Sherlock had almost stopped breathing.  _Oh shit!_

His pulse was still going like an express train, as the ambulance crew made it up the stairs. They took over, slipping a mask with pressurised oxygen over Sherlock's mouth and nose. Greg stood back to let them measure vital signs. He told them what he had told the control room despatcher, and they slipped Sherlock onto a backboard to help lift him onto the collapsible trolley that had been brought up the stairs.

The ambulance left before Lestrade could get back into the police car, but they quickly followed it to St Thomas' A&E. On the way, his phone rang. Sally Donovan's number came up on caller ID, so he took it. "What?"

If she was taken aback by his abruptness, Sally didn't comment, because she could hear the police car's siren over the phone. "I got that number you wanted- like pulling teeth, but I'm texting it through to you now."

"Right. Thanks" and he cut off. The number came through about 20 seconds later. He hit dial and waited for it to ring. On the third ring, a female voice answered. "Hello, how may I help you?"

"I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes immediately. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

There was a very brief silence. "And what is the purpose of your call?"

Lestrade was in no mood for delay or politeness. "You can tell him to meet me at St Thomas's Emergency Department. His brother is dying from a cocaine overdose." He hung up. He'd done his duty to Mycroft; now he focused his thoughts on Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg would remember that night for the rest of his life. He'd seen the inside of too many hospitals in his time- taking statements from victims, keeping an eye on wounded suspects, checking up on the injuries to his team members, even being treated himself. It came with the job, and Greg Lestrade was a professional. Homicides that aren't successful usually end up with someone in a hospital bed; the alternative is the morgue, and that is also usually found in a hospital. So, in his book, hospitals weren't always bad news; in fact, if they didn't involve a morgue, often they were good news.

But, his friends and family were remarkably healthy, so he was rarely in a hospital as a visitor in a private capacity. While he paced the waiting area of St Thomas's Emergency Department, he realised that's what he was. While Sherlock no doubt wanted to think of their relationship as 'professional', Greg had come to realise that he cared on a personal level for the fate of the young man.

Their paths had crossed often enough for Lestrade to realise that Mycroft's accusations were baseless. Yes, Sherlock's special gifts had helped Greg significantly in his career. But, at some point along the way of watching Sherlock work this past weekend, Greg realised that he cared about the young man himself, and did want to help him survive the maelstrom of what that amazing brain could do. As a detective, Greg Lestrade depended on his ability to put facts together with conjecture, to develop potential leads into prosecutable evidence. But like a run-of-the-mill artist who had suddenly been confronted by a Leonardo da Vinci, he was thunderstruck by the sheer artistry of Sherlock's forensic insight. The past weekend, he had watched a genius at work, and he would never, ever, forget it.

Somehow, over the weekend Sherlock had become important to Greg. In part, because he'd seen how Sherlock's work on cases meant he was able to unleash his skills in a way that did social good (he could hear Sherlock's reply in his head- "boring"). Although Sherlock would probably struggle to understand that, Greg knew that it just might be the young man's salvation. Having watched his nephew Sam struggle to find anything resembling respect from the people around him, Greg saw something wonderful in what Sherlock was able to do. He wasn't sure other people would get it; clearly his brother did not appreciate it. Sherlock's talent was unique, and it was awesome. And right now all that brilliance had turned self-destructive. That made him very, very angry.

He was trying to understand why that mattered as much as it did to him. He sat in one of those horrible plastic hospital seats. His elbows were on his knees, and he was looking down at the tiled floor, thinking this through, when he heard the sound of someone striding down the hall toward him.  _Not medical personnel; they don't wear leather soled shoes._

Greg looked up at the sound of Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes' face was set, his jaw tense, and his eyes seemed to go even colder when he caught sight of the DI.

He stopped in front of Greg, who decided not to get up; he wasn't going to be intimidated by Mycroft's looming figure. He calmly waited.

"This is what I meant, Detective Inspector. Exactly what I meant. Being involved in your little…cases," the word was delivered with every possible sneer he could muster, "…is not sensible, given how susceptible my brother is to drug abuse. I warned you to stay away from Sherlock, and to ensure he was not involved in any police work. You have chosen to ignore that, and now my brother may not survive an overdose. There will be consequences."

Greg was gobsmacked. Mycroft was clearly  _blaming him_  for what had happened.

That made him angry enough to propel him to his feet. Now inside Mycroft's physical space, he just said coldly, " _If_  he survives, it will be because I understood what he was intending and I found him in time. With all your  _surveillance_ , where were you when he really needed you? I figured out where he was, and got there while he was still alive. If it weren't for me, Sherlock would now be dead. Ask the medical staff here, if you don't believe me. If you don't believe them, take a look at this." He reached into his jacket pocket, and withdrew Sherlock's letter. He pulled off the yellow sticky with the solicitor's phone number on it, and handed the letter to Mycroft, who stepped away and scanned its lines.

"My brother is trying to protect you- how …quaint. If he does not survive, I will take appropriate action, Detective Inspector, no matter what this letter says." He handed it back to the DI.

Greg bristled at the tone of voice. "Then you will push me to find out about this file that your brother thinks is enough to stop you." He paused for a moment, trying to stop his anger taking hold. "But, you know, for his sake, right now, I think it would be best if we could both be on his side. If he survives. And you might want to stop and think about something. While you may believe that the murder cases were trivial, they weren't to him. He delayed taking action so he could finish his investigation into the latest one. I hoped it would keep him busy enough to give me a chance to catch up with him, to talk him out of anything stupid, to tell him that whatever argument he has with you, it isn't a reason to kill himself. If he survives, then it is up to you to realise what might keep him alive longer term. I have no doubt that his sanity will depend on you being willing to think past your prejudices. You need to realise that solving cases is what he lives for."

Mycroft frowned. "You'd better hope he lives, Detective Inspector. If he doesn't, then there is no force on earth that will protect you." With that, he turned away and carried on to the nursing station. He said a few words and one scurried off, perhaps looking for a doctor.

oOo

Greg went back down the corridor to the Emergency Department's admission desk where he made use of his police credentials to get the nurse to make a copy of the case notes that Sherlock had enclosed with his letter. "Make sure he gets a copy of this," he told the nurse to whom Mycroft had spoken. Greg had few illusions. If Mycroft Holmes decided to go for him, then it was highly unlikely his career would ever be the same, even if he managed to stay within the force. He wondered whether Mycroft Holmes would even bother to read the detailed note, but he still felt obliged to show it to him, if only to demonstrate just how good Sherlock was at solving crimes.

He asked at the desk whether any news had come through on Sherlock's condition.

"I'm only supposed to release that information to family members, sir."

He flashed his warrant card at her. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, and that young man is instrumental in a murder investigation, so, sorry- but you will have to answer my questions. If you don't know how he is, then find me a doctor who does. I've been here over an hour, and my patience is wearing thin."

She gave him an annoyed look. "What is with you lot? His brother acts like he's God's gift to mankind, and now you're pulling rank on me. I'll get Doctor Suresh to come speak to you as soon as he can."

That turned out to be almost a half hour later. A shockingly young looking doctor came down the corridor and stopped in front of Greg.  _They say you know you're getting old when doctors look like they are still in school._  He tuned into what this one was saying. "You're the policeman who brought him in, aren't you? Well, thanks to you, he made it out of the resus room. Cocaine overdose is difficult to diagnose unless someone knows they were trying to take their own life. According to the ambulance crew who brought him in, you said he'd had two hits of cocaine already, and we found a third syringe in his coat pocket."

Greg looked confused. " _Three?_  Why not just one massive dose in one syringe?"

The doctor shook his head. "It's called 'piggy backing'. You take the first hit to enjoy yourself and loosen inhibitions, then before you come down you take the second, and just before that starts to tail off, you take the third. The cumulative effect is certain to lead to a massive MI or cerebral haemorrhage. So, you must have interrupted him before he could take the third dose. Were you also responsible for getting his clothing wet?"

"Yeah- the despatcher said to cool him down. I used a bottle of cold water and ice."

The Junior Doctor smiled. "Then, you should be pleased, because that is probably what saved his life. Cocaine overdoses don't present like opiate ODs; cause of death is usually a stroke or massive heart attack due to an inability to shed heat. We got him into an ice bath to bring his temperature down and dosed him with diazepam to sedate him. That slowed things up enough for us to get his heart rhythm back to normal. He'll pull through."

Greg let his smile loose. "Good, that's very good."

Dr Suresh smiled, too, if a little more hesitantly.

Greg carried on, "Just tell his brother, will you, that if I hadn't brought him in on time, and done the right thing, he might not have made it. Can you do that for me?"

"Already have. Of course, the patient still has to get through withdrawal, and Rehab. Maybe, if he can get clean, this won't happen a third time."

"A  _THIRD_ time!? You mean he's done this before?"

"Yes, according to Mr Holmes, this is the second attempt. Last time was years ago. The patient had been in a clinic for a couple of months, but managed to get a hold of another patient’s drugs. Seems a pattern. I hope therapy can get to the bottom of it. I'm sorry to say that it is a fact that adult autistics have a higher rate of drug addiction and suicide than the normal population. It's a shame, it really is….well, I must get back, so unless there is anything else, Detective Inspector?"

"Can I see him, please? I need to speak with him."

Dr Suresh just shook his head. "That's not going to happen. His brother intends moving him to a private clinic, just as soon as we extubate him, but he will still be unconscious. If you want to see him, you'll need to arrange it with his legal guardian, Mr Holmes. Now, I must really get back to him."

He knew better than to even try to ask Mycroft. He left the hospital feeling relieved that Sherlock was alive. But Greg was deeply worried, too, about a young man whom he now realised he thought of as special, unique, maybe even a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this story; check out what happens next in Interregnum, starting tomorrow. It's the next part of the Got My Eye on You series.


End file.
